


Scars

by mialicia



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Scar fic, because this idea jumped on me and I couldn't ignore it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mialicia/pseuds/mialicia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of Clint's scars have their own story. Only five remind him that family can be found in anyone, anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Famille

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me as I was dying of boredom at work and I ran with it. It focuses mainly on Clint, and the relationships as well as the secondary characters show up in various parts/play a minor role. It's my first time doing a fic with various 'chapters', though these connect in a less traditional way than others. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The first one is just behind his knee, in the soft flesh that flexes with every step he takes. It’s an ugly thing, jagged in a way that means it was never stitched up properly. For a while after it happened Clint wondered if he would ever walk right again, and then when he was run out of the circus, beaten and left for dead, he was only glad that it hadn’t been his arm.

\--

It happened on a Saturday (the date is still fresh in his mind because to him it had felt like the end, a sure as hell way to get him kicked out of the circus). Barney was away, haunting their latest stop, finding some temporary work or, more likely, finding some temporary leisure. Clint had retired for the night, head propped up by his quiver as he read by the scant light in his tent. The pages of this book were well-worn and if you asked him the title Clint would simply shake his head, tell you _it didn’t matter_. What mattered was the story, the way everything fit just _right_ and there were homes and families and-

“Would you just give it _up_ already?” A girl with a pixie cut had poked her head into his tent, darted inside, and snatched the book out of Clint’s hands. When he made to take it back she giggled and dashed back outside, raising a cloud of dust in her wake. With a muttered curse Clint followed, slinging the quiver onto his back and grabbing his bow as he emerged. The night was clear and quiet, most of the circus company in for the night. Beneath the roar of a lion in the distance Clint caught another faint giggle to his left and he turned towards it, nocking an arrow but keeping his grip loose, relaxed. “You _live_ in a story, Hawk. What’re you doing _reading_ one?”

She’d given him that name. Funny, when the girl herself had no name. Most took to calling her Bullet, her inhumane speed having attracted the eye of the Swordsman. Clint simply didn’t have time to think of a name for her; she was always there and gone in a hurry, preferring to keep to herself. 

Except for nights like this. Except when the day had gone well and they’d had not one but two sold out shows and she had energy to burn. Clint would always fuss about it the next morning when Barney asked after the bags under his eyes but it was all a farce, a lie. “Because sometimes it’s nice to _pretend_.”

“Pretend what?” Clint swore, loudly this time: she had appeared only inches from his face, expression expectant, openly curious. Because he had never told her what had led him or Barney here. Or he’d told her half-truths, spun sentences to get away from the real story because that was _his_ burden to bear, his pain to keep locked away in those dark corners of his mind. “What is this book about, anyways?” She held it up to the moonlight, squinting to read the words, before her thoughts changed track again. Before Clint knew what had happened his bow had been replaced by his book, and his quiver had vanished. A moment of panic, then, before he saw her across the way, his quiver slung over her shoulder, his bow and arrow in her hands. Her skin glowed in the flickering lights.

“Target practice, c’mon!” And it wasn’t her fault, not really. She could read people. It wasn’t some supernatural gift, not some mutation like her speed. It was simply _her_ , and as Clint clutched the book in his hand he realized he didn’t want her help tonight. Didn’t want her to take away the safe haven, the constant he’d never had, that this book provided. So he shook his head and turned, eager to sleep, to wonder if tomorrow would bring that piece that always seemed to be missing.

But something had gone wrong. Something had startled her, or her hand had slipped, for the next moment Clint felt a sharp, hot slice of pain in his leg, just below his right knee. He grunted in surprise more than pain, and as he looked down to see his own arrow sticking out of his leg he heard her shout of surprise. Felt her arms around him the next second as his legs gave way. She would stay with him after that, removing the arrow herself, stitching up the wound as best she knew how. And when an infection threatened and a fever had Clint in its fiery grip she would read the story to him, guessing his secret along the way, and Clint would learn that a family could be found anywhere.

\--

Natasha kisses this scar now, a tender press of lips against the marred flesh. Clint shivers with the contact, feeling that gap of time collapse. He still has the book, though the cover has long fallen off and some pages are missing. It sits in the nightstand of his new room in his new place, Tony’s place, and when Natasha’s fingers tighten around his arm, pulling him back to the here and now, Clint smiles.

Family can be found anywhere.


	2. Familj

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the first chapter stuck more to the comics canon, this one and the rest of the chapters will be MCU canon. 
> 
> (Also I excuse Clint being a bit of a jerk because I feel that's how he might have been, in the beginning. I took liberties, of course!)

The second scar is on the heel of his right hand, an injury that had taken him out of commission for two, three days at most. It is the first and last injury Natasha has inflicted on him out of anger alone.

\---

In the early days, when Clint had been through enough missions to gain a semblance of trust with the most of the agents, Natasha hadn’t liked him much. The problem was that the more someone pushed him away, the more he tried to figure out _why_. Not so much to fix it but to poke and prod in a way that Clint had never quite grown out of. It didn’t help that some of the agents still looked at him as some kind of abnormality, still an outcast even here, even in this life he had chosen for himself. Only his handler, the one before Coulson (though at times Clint forgot there had been anyone before Coulson) had looked at him with anything akin to respect. Agent Trask and Director Fury had been willing to give him a chance and that alone was enough to earn Clint’s gratitude. 

But Natasha Romanov. The Black Widow. She would flash her eyes at him in the hallway, mutter something under her breath (always in Russian) and Clint would never know _why_. He’d proved himself, hadn’t he? He’d made a different call, spared her life when SHIELD wanted her dead. Hadn’t that been enough? The distrust wasn’t new but the degree of it, the longevity of that – Clint simply wasn’t used to not winning people over. It got to the point where even Fury was starting to notice, and Clint would miss a target here or there because he just wanted to know _why_. So one day he and Natasha were mysteriously signed up to spar together, and when Clint asked Trask about it the agent merely smiled and said it would build character.

They would be using knives, Clint found, and he most certainly did _not_ grasp his with a little more nervous energy as he stepped into the room. Natasha was already there, her hair aflame from the lights above. “So, is this…normal? I thought the goal is to keep ourselves from getting hurt until we get out on the field.” The knife felt strange in his hand, too thick, too heavy. Nevertheless he found its balance and hefted it, watching as Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“You won’t get hurt if you know how to use them.” 

And then she moved, almost too quickly for Clint to react. Her actions were explosive yet sleek, calculated yet chaotic enough to keep her opponent off-balance. Clint only saw a flash of red hair before he jumped, hooking his arm around a railing above and to his right. As Natasha swung her arm out in a wide arc Clint hauled himself up and over the railing, landing on a catwalk above. “What’s your deal anyways?” A clatter to his left indicated that Natasha had joined him and it was darker up her, the shadows deeper. He could see her by the flash of her blade, the gleam in her eyes. “You haven’t liked me since the first day you got here and I don’t know – jesus!”

“You talk too much.” Natasha had feinted left and struck right, cutting a shallow line across Clint’s shoulder, splitting the fabric and drawing scant blood. She came forward again, and again, backing Clint towards the wall. He ducked at her next attack, stayed low and made to sweep the feet out from under her. Natasha reacted quickly the first time around but Clint got her on the second and she went down, the breath leaving her in a sudden _whoosh_.

“And you don’t talk enough.” Clint merely stood there, pressing his hand to his shoulder and catching his breath. “You’re here because of me! I could have made a different call but I didn’t. And now you’ve been giving me the cold shoulder ever since. We’ve all got our pasts, okay? I know for a fact yours was in the red and the only hope you had of getting out came from me. Even now I don’t know if you’re still trading secrets with your comrades-“

Now Natasha _did_ move too quickly for Clint to react. He managed to get a hand up – and would regret it in the days to come. It was defense at its worst, and Clint felt the cold blade of the knife embed itself into his palm before he felt the pain. Even when he did he only grunted, because Natasha was there, her face dangerously close, and her expression was almost feral. “Never talk about things you don’t understand. Never think you’ll know me well enough to do that.” And only when Clint’s blood started to patter onto the grating below did Natasha step away, give him an unreadable look, and tell him to go to the infirmary. 

When Clint could hold a bow again Natasha would be there to encourage him when his hand became too weak, that frosty demeanor gone, a small grin playing across her face. He would know her well enough to hear of her past, and he would share his own.

\---

Clint rubs his thumb over that scar now. It’s more out of habit than anything since it’s little more than a white line, the skin smooth a bump used to be. Bruce is sitting on the couch next to him, controller in his hand and now he’s staring at Clint because the archer is letting his character stand out in the open, prime for shooting. “If I’d know you were just going to give this to me I would have picked a game I have trouble beating you at.”

The voice jars Clint out of the past and he looks over at Bruce and smiles. “In your dreams, Jade Jaws. I’ll be honored to kick your ass, but only if you promise not to smash the T.V. when you lose.” Bruce smiles then and even before he can turn back to the game Clint shoots his character down. It’s good to have friends to joke with, to cross over the same invisible line that had so long ago been barred to him. It’s good to have family.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) Constructive criticism and comments always welcome!


End file.
